How Many Times We'll Never Know
by thegrumblingirl
Summary: No-one raised their voice to Mycroft Holmes. Not international diplomats, monarchs, leaders of the more or less free world, and certainly not his employees. But now, one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was standing in Mycroft Holmes' living room, his brown eyes dark with anger. Post-Reichenbach. Mycroft/Lestrade. Multiple chapters.
1. Close Your Eyes, Rewind

Verse: same verse as my previous story _The Clouds Above Opened Up and Let It Out_, post-Series 2 of Sherlock

Pairing(s): Mycroft/Lestrade, implied Sherlock/John

Rating: T/M

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing. Title and lyrics nicked from Groove Armada's _Think Twice_. Give it a listen, I choose these songs for a reason!

For Ch., the Oncoming Squee.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"You did _what_?"

"For heaven's sake, lower your voice!"

"Like hell I will! If there's any more you'd like to tell me, do it now, I might yell some more just for the fun of it!"

No-one raised their voice to Mycroft Holmes. Not international diplomats, monarchs, leaders of the more or less free world, and certainly not his employees. But now, one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was standing in Mycroft Holmes' living room, his brown eyes dark with anger, and his short grey hair sticking up in all directions from running his hands through it in agitation.

"No, that's all," Mycroft forced his voice to stay even, his tone cold.

Greg scoffed and threw his arms up in the universal gesture of defeat. "That's all, alright. I can't believe… how can you be sitting there like this? Have you talked to John?" he demanded.

"I have, he came to see me when the headlines broke. He wasn't… pleased."

"You sold the man he… you sold your little brother out to a criminal psychopath who you knew wanted him dead, I'm sure 'not pleased' was part of his reaction."

"Greg—"

"No." His hands on his hips, Lestrade squared up to Mycroft, making it clear he wouldn't accept any bullshit right now. "You had to choose between Moriarty and your brother, and, tell me again, who did you choose?"

"I didn't—"

"If it had been me, would you have done the same?" The anger in the DI's eyes mixed with hurt, and Mycroft blinked once too often, but didn't avert his gaze. "Would you have warned me, at least? And how many times, Mycroft? How many times have you done this before, and how many times will we never know whose life you took?"

"And now many happy endings have never made it to the papers, do you think?"

"Sherlock and John didn't get a happy ending." With that, Lestrade grabbed his coat off the back of the sofa.

"Are you leaving?" Mycroft asked, his voice still betraying no sign of upset. Still, Lestrade understood the double meaning behind the question. _Are you leaving me?_ He hesitated. Was he? He went with his gut.

"No. I just… I need some time to think. I'll call you."

Mycroft watched him leave and, when he heard the front door close quietly, he shot up from the sofa and hurled the teacup he'd been holding on to across the room—it shattered against the mantelpiece.

'Caring is not an advantage,' he'd told Sherlock not too long ago. Right now, it was tearing him apart.

_Close your eyes, rewind,  
And know just what you're thinking_

Greg quickly left the house and walked over to where he'd parked his car. He got in and fastened the seatbelt, but didn't turn the key in the ignition. Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned back, drawing deep and even breaths to calm himself. Unwittingly, he started replaying the last few hours in his mind. There hadn't been a big, proper funeral—John had rightly given the world at large the finger and arranged for his best friend to be buried quietly, only taking Mrs Hudson along on his first visit. That had been the day before, and today Greg and Mycroft had gone to the cemetery. The DI knew that the elder of the Holmes brothers was unlikely to show his true feelings after his younger sibling's suicide—not only because anyone could be watching and the British government couldn't afford to show its weaknesses, but simply because he just didn't. Not to the untrained eye, anyway. Much like John had with Sherlock, Greg had gotten better at deciphering minute changes in Mycroft's voice, or his expression, but both Holmeses sometimes remained complete mysteries to either of their companions.

So when they stood at Sherlock's grave, Greg could see why Mycroft had been dubbed the Ice Man by Moriarty. There was nothing, no hint of grief, no sense of loss. Staring at his brother's headstone impassively, Mycroft Holmes appeared not to feel anything. Next to him, the DI was nearly drowning in the guilt he'd been carrying around with him, along with the sadness whenever he thought of John, who, though practically tiny compared to Sherlock, had stood his tallest at the side of an unwavering friend; and who was now bereft of the man he clearly loved with all his heart, despite his insistences.

When they left, Greg offered to go to the station in his car to catch up on paperwork and give him a bit of space, but Mycroft had asked him to come out to the house with him. Each taking their own car, Greg arrived when Mycroft had already put the kettle on for them—his driver had a bit of an unhealthy tendency to run red lights whenever possible. Holding out a cup for Greg to take, Mycroft said, "I think we need to talk about my brother."

Greg took the tea and let himself sink into the cushions next to him, sitting at an angle so he could watch Mycroft's face, for what it was worth, dread stirring in his stomach.

"The circumstances of Sherlock's death were… convoluted, to say the least, and I think you should know a few things before you go back to your team… and to Dr Watson."

The DI looked down at his hands that were idly twirling the cup, and swallowed. "You think it's my fault?"

Had he lifted his head, he would have seen the rapid sequence of surprise, anger, and mortification that passed over Mycroft's face before he schooled his expression back into something less… expressive.

"No… no, I don't, don't be ridiculous. Greg, you tried to help them, you did everything you could, short of losing your job. John doesn't blame you, I'm sure, neither do I, and neither did Sherlock. We know that there is someone else to be held responsible for my brother's death."

Lestrade nodded, hesitant. "Moriarty."

"Me."

_Close your eyes  
And lose the feeling that's been sinking_  
_Close your eyes_  
_And count to three_

In his car, Lestrade punched the steering wheel with his fist, cursing through his teeth. Mycroft's eyes had been so cold, so hard, his tone so matter-of-fact that it had taken the Inspector everything not to grab him by the shoulders and knock some different kind of pain into the smooth, aristocratic face, after all.

"You can't mean that," he countered.

"I can, because it's true. Sherlock was right, I am the British government—then why didn't I save him, why didn't I gag the press and interfere with the Met's investigation, giving Sherlock enough time to clear his name?"

"Because Sherlock would've hated that," Greg tried to ease the tension a bit with a chuckle, but Mycroft didn't react.

"I didn't because Moriarty had me in a vice. While he was in prison, he wanted to see me. He said he had something in his possession, a code. A code consisting of ten digits that could break into any system. He threatened to throw England back into the Middle Ages—unless I gave him what he wanted. I hesitated, unwilling to believe him. I consulted every scientist in our employ, and as many working internationally as I could discreetly get a hold of. They all told me: such a code cannot exist. Then again, such a criminal mastermind as Moriarty undoubtedly was one shouldn't exist, either.

"I had to make a choice to protect my country and its citizens, so I asked him his price. He wanted to know everything I knew—about Sherlock. I thought it was merely part of his psychopathic fascination with him, that he was trying to crawl into his life as best he could. I didn't quite realise the harm I'd done until the tabloids proclaimed my brother a fraud and a liar.

"I knew that man wanted my little brother dead, and I handed him all he needed, in exchange for a threat that never existed."

_Why do we never know enough of happy ends?  
How many times we'll never know?_

* * *

Lestrade put the car into reverse and drove away from the house, not entirely sure where he was going. Home—to his flat, the station… it wasn't as if he'd be doing any good in either of those places. The dreary emptiness of his house would only remind him of how Mycroft's place had started to feel more like _home_ recently, of how he'd finally started thinking this… thing they had had a better chance of survival than his marriage, and of how close he'd come to losing his job. He knew that Mycroft could—and would—try to protect him from being discharged, in spite of his own weakened position, but that was no consolation when he returned to staring at a blurry wall of uneasy faces and distrust every day. The best he could do there now was paperwork, anyway. His cases had been put on hold, pending investigation by a task force set up to re-evaluate all and any of his team's work, checking for infiltration by Sherlock Holmes. The Met needed to figure out if this was likely to become a liability. So far, none of the cases currently pending trial had been disrupted by lawyers calling bullshit on evidence provided by Sherlock's involvement, but the trouble would start soon enough.

And when that happened, Lestrade's arse would be the first out the door.

So where could he go? He navigated the slow push and shove of London's city traffic, resisting the urge to just put the lights on and barge through, until he somehow found himself in Westminster. Westminster NW1, to be precise. He put the car into park and looked up at the tall-ish house, 221B Baker Street, which seemed to have shrunk as if curling in on itself, wounded by the loss of love and dignity it had sustained during recent events, the once elegant black door now a mourning wreath. Greg sighed, knowing full well that this probably wasn't the latest in a long line of not very good ideas, got out of the car, and crossed the road. Without knocking or bothering to ring the shot bell, he entered the inner hall. Preparing to jog up the stairs, perhaps calling for John to alert him to his presence, he heard the door to Mrs Hudson's own flat open.

"Who's there—oh, Inspector!" Her voice was not unkind, if surprised.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson. I came to see John, but I—I'm sorry. I should go," Greg managed to turn himself around in one breath, he moved to leave again, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Nonsense, come on in. I'll make us a cuppa," the older woman regarded him steadily, and Lestrade felt himself give in.

"Thank you." He followed her through to her kitchen and sat down. His breath caught when he saw what the small table was littered with: newspaper clippings, documenting Sherlock and John's rise and fall from grace; that damned deerstalker practically bloody everywhere. Greg swallowed and only managed to tear his gaze away when a cup of tea, milk, and sugar appeared in front of him, and Mrs Hudson sat down across from him, cradling a cup of her own.

He thanked her again and stirred too much sugar and not enough milk into his tea. Reluctantly gesturing at the papers, he forced himself to ask. "All this… why?"

She shrugged, her weathered face showing sadness warring with maternal pride. "He probably really was the worst tenant in London, but he was as much of a son to me as he was a friend to John. What they did to him… I don't know why I'm keeping these." She laid a slightly shaky hand on the photographs and articles, and sighed. "John isn't coming back."

Lestrade's head jerked up at that. "What do you mean? Where's he going? Is he leaving London?"

"No, he's just… he took up a small flat somewhere, away from the city, just… he says he can't set another foot into this house."

Greg shuddered a little and lowered his head again. "I haven't spoken to John since the arrest."

"I know." Suddenly, the landlady's voice was so full of compassion that his chest constricted. He chanced a look and saw her smiling at him sadly. "I know none of this is your fault, Inspector. I know you did all you could to protect Sherlock, even while it was happening."

"I wish John had punched me instead of the Chief Superintendent."

"Oh, he had it coming." Mrs Hudson waved his objections aside and continued, "Yes, John was angry, but he had a go at you the way he did to try and take the heat off you a bit."

Lestrade couldn't help the mirthless chuckle. "He_ really_ should've punched me."

"But he didn't," came the no-nonsense reply from the other side of the rickety table. "And he won't turn you away," she added; and out of nowhere, a slip of paper appeared under his nose. He squinted and deciphered an address, hastily jotted down. Quickly copying it into his notepad, Lestrade thanked whichever deity that was listening for the steadfast kindness that was Mrs Hudson.

* * *

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EDIT: Lilli-thanks for being the first to review and, yes, there will be more!


	2. And Know Just What You're Thinking

**Chapter 2**

It was another three days before Lestrade worked up the courage to go and see John. Three days, during which he hadn't called Mycroft and Mycroft hadn't called him, respecting his privacy. Standing outside the door to a possibly very small flat in a rather dingy apartment building away from the city centre, Greg held his breath after knocking. He strained his ears, listening for the sound of shuffling feet. When he couldn't hear anything, he almost turned to leave, but then a familiar voice called, "Just a minute!"

A few seconds later, the door opened and Lestrade's jaw slackened. Quickly, he caught himself, and attempted an almost-smile.

"Hello, John. Can—can I come in?"

"Of course."

John stepped aside to let him pass, and Lestrade followed a dim light through a short, narrow hallway that led into a small living area with a sofa bed and a desk to the left, a kitchenette to the right, and another hallway leading to the back of that flat, probably to the bathroom and a closet. He heard John come up behind him and turned around, tilting his head down a bit so he could see the shorter man's face. His eyes were a little red, as though from crying, but otherwise… he looked tidy. Positively normal, one might have thought, if that hollow expression in his eyes hadn't given the game away completely. He was clean shaven, properly dressed, his hair neatly combed. The efficiency of the soldier, as if added in an afterthought.

* * *

A day earlier, another knock had sounded on John's new front door. Reluctantly, he'd gone to open it—and had found himself face-to-face with Mycroft Holmes. The army doctor had let the British government in without comment, had waited for him to seat himself in the chair beside the small desk, staring at him blankly. Mycroft had coughed quietly and raised a hand to his head as if wanting to tug at his earlobe, but had stopped the movement just in time, covering for it with massaging his right temple, as though staving off a headache of massive proportions, which was rather more appropriate for someone in his position.

"John," he began, but as he perceived the subtle stiffening in the man's shoulders, he wisely changed tactics. "Dr Watson," Mycroft amended. "I came to offer my deepest condolences. I know my brother, as erratic as he was, was important to you, and I have come to believe that the… sentiment was mutual. I want to thank you for looking after him. And in return, I want to offer you… to be looked after. I gather that this is all you're able to afford on your pension—it's no place to stay for long. If you like, I would gladly ensure your prolonged stay in 221B Baker Street for as long as you—"

"Get out." John's voice was nary a whisper, yet his tone was clipped and crystal clear; and Mycroft's head snapped up, his bright, steely gaze meeting John's own unnerving stare. "Leave, now, or I swear to God—" the ex-soldier interrupted himself and took a strained breath through his nose, pressing his lips together, fist flexing at his side. "Keep out of my life, Mycroft, once and for all; it's only mine anymore now. You've done enough." That last sentence was laced with just that bit of hardened sarcasm that Mycroft had always suspected to be the thing that had drawn his younger brother to this man so irreversibly.

"Doctor—"

"It's not as if I needed to explain this to you, is it? Just… please." The request had clearly come out without his conscious permission, and Mycroft observed the man swallowing convulsively. When he didn't move, John made a small gesture towards the hallway with his left hand, never averting his eyes.

Finally, Mycroft nodded and got up, walking towards the door. When he was almost outside, he paused. John hadn't bothered to follow and Mycroft couldn't see him from where he stood.

"Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

* * *

"Would you like a cup of tea?" John broke the silence that had unfolded between them, and Greg nodded gratefully. Tea was just the ticket, wasn't it, in times of crises? Lestrade preferred coffee at the office, when cases turned against him, as they always did, or when performance review paperwork demanded another night shift. But now, tea seemed the only logical conclusion. John went over to the kitchen counter and put the kettle on, motioning for Lestrade to take a seat at the desk. The DI complied and took another moment to look around the flat. Apart from the bare necessities and utensils, there was, quite simply, nothing in it. Greg couldn't even see John's laptop out, and he'd rarely been anywhere without it in recent months. Then again… the detective may have been lost without his blogger, but then what was the blogger without his detective? Lestrade had seen the last entry the army doctor had put up only a day after the Fall, and he'd wondered.

"Where's your stuff?" he asked, almost reflexively, when John handed him a mug and set milk and sugar on the desk at his elbow.

"Haven't gone back to get my things yet. I will, in a few days." John sipped his own tea, settling himself into the inevitably uncomfortable sofa bed, across the room from Lestrade. "Pack it all in," he added, looking up at Greg eventually.

"You're really not staying at Baker Street?"

"No."

They let the silence between them stretch a little, each absorbed in their own thoughts: John, in his memories, Lestrade, torn between blinding fury and guilt.

"I was there a few days ago. Not in the flat itself, I only talked to Mrs Hudson—she… told me where to find you. It didn't feel right, without—is that why..?"

John nodded abruptly. "My therapist says I should stay, to 'come to terms with it.'" He scoffed, too small a sound to convey the pain, even to Greg. "How do you do that, how do you come to terms with—" John stopped and shook his head minutely.

"John, I… I'm sorry."

John merely stared at him, lips slightly pursed.

"I could have—if I had been there, if I had taken a stand, I… I'm so sorry."

As if struck by lightning, John suddenly shot up from his seat on the sofa bed, slamming his mug onto the coffee table as he went, pacing over towards the window and back. "Would everyone PLEASE just STOP saying that?!" he yelled, and Lestrade nearly dropped his tea. The other man was panting now, breath coming in brisk, quick spurts, fists curled at his sides. "If anyone should feel guilty, as obsolete as that is with him, then that's Moriarty. If anyone should feel like they've let Sherl-Sherlock down, then that's me. And if anyone should be sorry, truly sorry, then that's Mycroft bloody Holmes, because he's the one who tied it all into one neat package."

Greg just about tipped back in his chair, that last name coming at him like a smack in the face.

"You did all you could, you had no way of knowing what would happen, so stop beating yourself up about it," John continued. It was an order, heartfelt, but crisp and clear.

"You're not stopping." Miraculously, his voice didn't fail him, and Lestrade swallowed past the tightness in his throat, trying to block out all thoughts of Mycroft.

"Yeah, well, he was my best friend," came the dry and bitter reply, and Greg was glad that John had his head angled away from him so he couldn't see the sad sidelong glance the DI was giving him. Silence descended once more, until Greg couldn't help himself.

"What's his brother got to do with anything, then?"

* * *

When Greg went back to his car, let himself fall heavily into the driver's seat, and stared out the windscreen, unseeing, he knew one thing with absolute certainty. No matter what happened, he would never, ever tell John about his relationship with Mycroft. He hated the thought even more now than during the past few months, when a semblance of a future had at least been an option, but there was no other option. When John told him about Mycroft's role in this disaster just now, there was so much hatred, so much pain… John and Mycroft had never really got along, only ever agreeing on their shared innate need to keep Sherlock safe, and that was a bit of a moot point now, wasn't it.

Mycroft had been sure that Sherlock had known about them, though why he had apparently elected not to say anything to John about it, Mycroft had never been able to tell. Even now, a selfish part of Greg was glad of it as it whined, he felt torn between his friend and his… partner, Mycroft preferred partner; which made Greg want to petulantly call him his boyfriend, even just in his mind. Or perhaps ex-boyfriend, soon.

* * *

**SIX YEARS EARLIER**

They meet through Sherlock, of course.

One night, Lestrade was walking home from an arrest that had been made close to his home, not bothering going back to the station after his DCI had waved him off, letting his Sergeants deal with the mess; the paperwork, for once, could wait 'til morning. Not that morning was a long way away, which was why Lestrade wasn't expecting a particularly warm welcome from his wife. The idea of going home was soon to be obliterated, anyway.

He rounded a corner, marching past a few dark alleyways, when he heard a groan. Not that folk ending up either drunk or high in dark alleys was anything surprising, not even in this neighbourhood. No, what had him pause and walk closer to look, deftly opening his coat and suit jacket underneath so he'd have easier access to his gun, was what the groan had distinctly sounded like.

"Inspector," the figure on the floor next to a few bins rasped again and Lestrade stopped a few feet away, ears straining for any other approaching footsteps, for any sign that this might be a trap. Right hand hovering at his side, ready to go for his service piece in his shoulder holster, he dug a small flashlight out of his coat pocket with his left, illuminating the area, also checking the main street behind him. Satisfied that they seemed to be alone, the DI took another step forwards, getting a better look at the man slumped on the damp ground.

"Who are you?" he asked, too tired and too unimpressed by what he saw to bother with a 'sir.' Unruly, unwashed black curls were flattened against a sweaty forehead, glassy bright eyes narrowed when the beam of the flashlight hit them, red-rimmed and bloodshot, pupils blown so wide there were nearly no irises left to be seen. "What did you take?" Lestrade asked when he received no reply.

The man, features harsh, half-illuminated, half in the dark, let out a scoff. "Doesn't matter," was all he said, and Greg wouldn't know which of his questions he was answering, and that, indeed, didn't matter. So he focused on something that did.

"How do you know me? Know I'm an Inspector?"

"I've… seen you around." The bloke had shut his eyes against the light, but he cracked one open then to chance a look up at Greg. "Made an arrest t'night, I see. Might've even been the right'un." Lestrade could tell he had trouble speaking, but what did come out of his mouth was mostly remarkably articulate. Well, for a junkie.

"And how did you know it was me when I walked past?" Lestrade didn't show it, but his muscles were flexing slowly, his body poised to defend himself if he sensed movement _anywhere_.

"St'p twitching," came from below, derisively, more a noise than words this time, "and you won't need your gun; it's jus' me down 'ere, no-one's coming."

He should have just kept on walking.

Lestrade took another step towards mystery man and growled, "Who are you, what did you take, and where's it gonna be: the station or a hospital?"

"Sherlock Holmes, a seven-p'cent solution of cocaine, and none of the above. My flat will do."

Great. A patrol car or an ambulance, Greg could throw the guy into and be done with him; a cab, not so much. Of course, he could clap him in irons and declare him property of Scotland Yard for the night, but he wasn't up for the hassle of getting him through booking and into a cell, much less through the tedious procedure of compulsory hospitalisation. He sighed. Fine.

"Where's your flat, then?" he asked, reaching for his phone instead of his weapon to call a cab.

It was a dirty little nest, this one, cluttered up to the hilt, floorboards hardly visible. Lestrade picked his way through it, reluctantly supporting Holmes, who hit a light switch as they passed, flailing just a little. In the dim light that flickered down from the ceiling, Lestrade realised that his charge looked more like a boy than a man, face lank; but the drugs had made his cheeks hollow, his eyes haggard, and his smile more than a little twisted.

The cab driver hadn't wanted to take them until Lestrade had flashed his badge, barking at him that if he hurried up, the less chance there was that Holmes would puke his guts out on the backseat. The ride had been blessedly short, with Holmes folded in on himself against the window, nails absently picking at scabs on his hands. Now that he saw where the man lived, Lestrade concluded they were mostly likely scars from burns and cuts, carefully collected over the course of what seemed to be chemical experiments. Greg sincerely hoped he wouldn't find anything that would actually require wearing a HAZMAT suit. Then he realised how Holmes, who didn't have any cash on him (he'd checked before paying the cab driver), supported his addiction: he made the stuff himself. In the long run, it paid off; there was no other way he would have been able to afford flasks and scalpels Lestrade had only ever seen in Anderson's new lab down at the Met. Well, shit.

He groaned, finally sitting Holmes down on a rickety sofa, upon which the younger man promptly tilted sideways, head hitting the armrest with a small thud. He closed his eyes again, stretching languidly, and Lestrade wanted to slap him. Instead, he cleared a small stool next to the desk and then went into the en-suite kitchen, pouring a glass of water before heading back. He plonked down the glass on the window sill next to Holmes' head before sitting down on the stool with another sigh. He looked around for a phone, anything to further identify this guy, any trace of who he could call to take him off his hands.

"Behind you on the desk," Holmes mumbled around the lip of his glass. Lestrade frowned at him and he clarified, "My phone. It won't tell you much, though."

Lestrade turned and, sure enough, there was a non-descript mobile phone lying on the charred wood surface of the desk. He picked it up and found it was turned on—_thank goodness_, he thought, who knew what kind of hoops the guy would make him jump through to extract the PIN from him. Flicking through the messages, the call logs, and the contacts, Lestrade only found one number, labelled 'Mycroft.' Mycroft, Sherlock—what kind of comedy had he landed himself in?

He looked at Holmes sprawled on the sofa, breathing still too fast and too ragged. Someone would have to stay with him, Lestrade knew, to make sure he wouldn't OD; so he hit the call button and held the phone to his ear, waiting. He nearly smiled when someone picked up, but his face showed only confusion when he didn't even have time to say anything before a voice told him, "I'll be right there. Don't move," and the person at the other end ended the call.

Lestrade allowed himself a moment of consideration for how deep and smooth the voice had sounded, similar to and yet the complete opposite of Sherlock's. He didn't quite have time to shake himself out of it when the door opened without a warning. Jumping to his feet, Lestrade this time did draw his gun and trained it on whoever was coming into the room. He frowned again, but did not falter or loosen his stance, when the person stepping through was a tall, dark-haired man in a three-piece suit, an umbrella dangling from his elbow, dark eyes gazing sharply along his rather hawk-like, almost aristocratic nose.

"You can lower your weapon, Inspector," the smooth voice Lestrade had heard on the phone just a minute ago instructed him. Unwilling to comply, Greg tilted his head in a challenge.

"Oh, yeah? Says who? How did you get here so quickly?"

"I was waiting, Inspector. If you would kindly put your gun away, I could shake your hand and tell you my name." A steely edge had entered the overall pleasantly smooth tone. Lestrade threw a glance over his shoulder at Holmes, who didn't seem the least bit perturbed by what was going on in his shabby living room. Silently huffing to himself, he holstered his gun and stuck out his hand.

The other man shook it twice, his grasp firm and just that side of arrogant, the way Lestrade was used to from Commissioners and politicians he met sometimes. "Mycroft Holmes," the man said. "I'm his brother."

Lestrade nearly choked. "His _brother_? Alright, that explains _that_ you were here in under a minute, but not _how_ you got here. Where were you?"

"I was waiting for you to leave, actually, outside in the car."

Greg's eyebrows must have been hovering in the air above his forehead by now. "In the—where you following us? Did you know how he's been the whole night?"

"I always know," came another smooth reply, and Lestrade was ready to start pushing furniture around; preferably in the elder Holmes' _face_. "I keep an eye on him. Constantly," Mycroft elaborated when all that came from Lestrade were barely concealed angry breaths. Greg didn't even know why he was getting so riled up. He didn't know this man, didn't know his younger brother, had no right to get mixed up in this, not really. And yet, he stepped up to Mycroft, right up in his space, enjoying how the slightly taller man decidedly did _not_ bristle at the intrusion, and barked, "And it doesn't occur to you to step in _before_ something like this happens? What sort of brother are you?"

* * *

_And then it just went downhill from there_, Greg thought as he pulled out of the driveway of the block of flats John Watson called his home now.


	3. Close Your Eyes and Think of Me

**Chapter 3**

Mycroft Holmes didn't get distracted. Not by aching teeth (at least not much), and certainly not by his younger brother's escapades (at least not for longer than five minutes). He didn't get distracted by having a partner, either. Neither his job nor his countenance allowed for many extravagances, and if anyone had expected him to suddenly change his routines or discontinue working as he always did because he now awoke most mornings with an arm slung somewhere over his person and a stubbled cheek pressing into his neck, he'd have shown them the door politely, but with just enough barely veiled contempt.

The trouble was that, at the moment, he wasn't waking with an extra arm anywhere, far from it. He woke alone, with air hitting his back where trapped warmth should have been; and the only stubbled cheek in sight was his own.

He made the coffee himself and for one, a second cup abandoned on the counter top; and the sports section of the Times wasn't going to be casually picked up by anyone today. No-one would lightly whack his shoulder with it, because there was no-one there to tease with a comment on the Yard's notorious lack of good-looking and well-dressed officers.

At the office, his first words to Anthea were to ask whether she had contacted the Chief Constable about the 11 o'clock appointment, as instructed. When she stopped typing on her BlackBerry, but no verbal reaction was forthcoming, he broke his stride towards his desk and turned.

She answered his raised eyebrow with one of her own, surprise fairly chiselled into the curve it.

Mycroft knew that Anthea never forgot something. He knew that she would never openly contradict him, much less point out the obvious. But he also knew that she wasn't the sort of PA who cleaned up anyone's mess without letting them know about it—it was precisely why he'd hired her.

Carefully, deliberately, he shifted his folded umbrella from one arm to the other. "Before we begin, an alteration to today's schedule: please contact the Chief Constable's office, there are certain circumstances I wish to discuss with him, concerning the current... state of the Yard's homicide division."

Anthea nodded and resumed typing immediately. "Of course, sir. All the documents pertaining to tomorrow's cabinet meeting are on your desk."

"I see. That will be all."

* * *

Later that day, Greg received a phone call that had his shoulders sagging in relief, and his brow furrow in consternation.

Although his cases were still pending investigation regarding Sherlock's involvement and possible manipulation, he wasn't to be the subject of a disciplinary hearing, nor would he be discharged from the Force. If cases were to start falling through, he'd likely face a demotion to Detective Sergeant and more grunt work than he'd ever done in his life, but he wouldn't be sacked.

"For fear of the Met's public image," the Chief Constable had informed him.

The fact that the CC himself had been the one to call, instead of the DSU (whose broken nose had fully healed by now; a fact that he had a feeling would give John cause for disappointment) made Lestrade uneasier than the thought of being given the boot ever had.

So, apparently, he still had a future. Not much of one, granted, but being a Sergeant was something he could do. He dreaded to think who they'd throw at him for a new DI to head up the division; though his anxiety lessened somewhat when his mind supplied Dimmock. He hadn't had a chance to talk to the man yet, who'd escaped his own brief stints with Sherlock relatively unscathed. He knew that Dimmock hadn't offered any of his cases up for re-evaluation, which filled Greg with some irrational hope that, perhaps, the head he had on his shoulders was as useful as Sherlock had seemed to think it was, by the end of the Blind Banker case at least.

Before hanging up, the Chief Constable had advised him to go home for the day. Needing not just time, but peace and quiet, to think, he did exactly that.

He finally needed to think about the question he'd avoided ever since Mycroft had sat him down on that blasted sofa.

In Lestrade's experience, it never really came down to '_can_ you forgive him'—the question was much simpler and much more cruel than that.

Did he _want_ to forgive him?

* * *

That night six years ago, Greg hadn't drawn his gun on Mycroft Holmes again, no matter how much he might have wished to.

Sherlock cut in at some point, from his precarious position on the couch, and advised to leave it, give it a rest, and let go (and just about all other synonyms for such a thing in the English thesaurus). Mycroft assured him that the situation would be handled from there, and that he would contact him at his office at the Yard to negotiate compensation for his ruined evening. Greg was about to ask how he knew where he worked when Sherlock gave a scoff from behind him that sounded suspiciously like, "Don't make a fool of yourself by asking _that_."

He clicked his mouth shut.

Rummaged in his wallet and produced his card.

He thrust it at Mycroft, who raised his hand to receive it without missing a beat.

He nodded, turned to glare at Sherlock, and then brushed past Mycroft and left, letting the door slam shut behind his back.

Mycroft had indeed called him at the office the following afternoon. Greg, who had spent the night on the sofa and the morning arguing with his wife, was at that point no closer to wanting to have anything to do with the two infuriating siblings than he was to an untroubled marriage.

"You can't be serious," he very nearly sputtered into the receiver. "Your brother's a junkie, and now you call me, asking me how I'd like to be _reimbursed_ for the _favour_ of not dragging him into the nearest holding cell?"

"Inspector, I'm sure there must be _something_ I can do to ease your way... especially should you choose to continue keeping an eye out for my brother," came that same smooth voice from the previous night over the ether, and Lestrade bristled, struggling to hide his reactions from the team outside his office.

"I have no idea who you actually are, Mr Holmes, and I don't particularly care to. Normally, I would have suggested any junkie's brother just give me back what I paid for the cab that got the idiot home. But now that I've got you spouting nonsense about favours and due mortgages down my phone, I'd like to very politely decline. And by that I mean to tell you to _stuff_ it wherever convenient. If you want someone to spy on your brother, why don't you do it yourself! Good day, Mr Holmes."

With that, he banged the phone down and told himself to count to 100.

He got as far as 23 before Donovan poked her head 'round the door and announced that there was a funny-looking bloke who wanted to speak to him.

"Holmes, he says his name is. Freak, if you ask me; can hardly keep himself upright."

When he stepped out to meet the younger Holmes brother, the knowing look he got set him right back to 0.

"I see my brother called. And you refused?"

"You bloody well bet I did. Wait—"

"Hmm." Sherlock then got out his phone and pressed a single button, Greg already rolling his eyes, knowing whose number that had to be. "Brother dear? It seems we might have something here."

And thus, DI Greg Lestrade became part of the deal that would make Sherlock the world's only consulting detective—in exchange for getting clean.

* * *

Greg arrived at his flat and put the kettle on.

Without thinking, the fingers of his right hand started tracing the phantom memory of his wedding ring as he stood and stared out the window, unseeing.

Throughout the five years that he had worked with Sherlock before John turned up, Greg and Mycroft had barely spoken ten words to each other at a time. He was aware that the elder Holmes brother hovered, close, often undetected; but even when Lestrade caught a glimpse of him, the man hardly interacted with those around him, keeping his distance. When the DI eventually cottoned on to who Mycroft was, however, he walked up to him just as the older brother tried to persuade the younger to get into the sleek, government-issued car with tinted windows.

"A word?"

It had been a short way from there to Lestrade barely containing himself, furious not just at being "tried and tested," but at the way Mycroft seemed to be keeping Sherlock "on a leash."

"Are you defending his right to privacy, or accusing me of coddling him?"

"I'm saying that you're a fool for substituting one addiction with another."

Mycroft's dark eyes glittered in the flickering lights of patrol cars, and Lestrade reminded himself that he shouldn't have gotten close enough to see it.

"We both know that that's exactly what you're doing, Mr Holmes. And I don't care if you 'occupy a minor position in the British government,' this isn't going to help your brother in the long run. Not forever."

"It doesn't have to be forever, Inspector. Just long enough. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mulish brother to contend with. Good evening, Inspector. Do give my regards to your wife."

Greg didn't; not that night, nor any other time Mycroft ended their conversations with that one, unchangingly courteous phrase.

Neither did he allow his thoughts to wander towards Mycroft when Beth first suggested spending some time apart to gain perspective on their marriage. Lestrade knew it was their jobs. Both busy, both driven, but both aware that what little time they spent together wasn't bringing them closer together, it was driving them apart; and he knew that that was his fault. His hours were worse, and so was the odour of mortuary and carbon pulver that he brought home every night, along with memories of hollow eyes and shallow graves. Although he found Beth's work as a teacher no less gruelling sometimes, tales of death were different, they had to be. So they'd decided.

That had been just on the day that Sherlock had found himself an army doctor; and that evening, Greg didn't know whether to be surprised when Mycroft turned up at the crime scene. Lestrade didn't have to be within earshot to have a good inkling what the two brothers were arguing about. He smiled to himself. What he'd told John was right, he didn't know Sherlock, just enough to know about his addiction and his squabbles with his brother—a man he knew even less. And he wasn't sure if he should want to as much as he did.

When Mycroft approached him after his brother had left, striding off with John, cocky as you like, Greg wondered what it was going to be. 'Keep an eye on them'? 'Make sure that soldier fellow doesn't make everything worse than it is already'? (Which Greg had absolutely no doubt was exactly what was going to happen.)

"Good evening, Inspector Lestrade. I'm afraid I must apologise for my brother's meddlesome tendencies, since it's glaringly obvious that he won't."

"Bullets whizzing about him is news to me," Lestrade replied, whether in an attempt to underhandedly inform Mycroft of his suspicions as to the shooter's identity, or to take a bit of the heat off Sherlock, he didn't rightly know.

"Be that as it may, it is a great comfort to me that he will continue working with you, in spite of his new... pal. For all it's worth, he might be good for him."

Mycroft's tone was acid even as he didn't specify who was who in that sentence; and Lestrade had to bite back a laugh.

"And what of the Great Unfeeling Beast?" he asked, too bitter to do anything about his own foolishness.

"I hope you're not waiting for a Disney allegory, Inspector."

This time, the laugh couldn't be contained. "No, Mr Holmes. Fairy tales are not really my area."

"No, I'd noticed."

Lestrade looked up sharply, startled by the bland quality Mycroft's voice had taken on, only to be regarded rather sternly.

"Good night, Inspector."

With that, he'd left, and Greg had taken embarrassingly long to remember what was missing.

It wasn't just the job, he reasoned now, standing in his kitchen. There were happily married police officers up and down the Thames, and if he couldn't be one, then something else must have gone wrong entirely. In the end, they'd fought over a technicality, not for their feelings.

Again, he had a Holmes to thank for that particular revelation.

After confronting Beth about her "affair with the PE teacher," they split up for good. Neither of them could look the other in the eye anymore; not after she'd demanded to be told how he knew.

"I don't know what's harder to believe: that you're letting an ex-junkie solve your cases, or that you put more faith in what a Holmes says than in what we agreed on when we got back together."

"You _lied_ when we got back together!" he reminded her, headache brewing at the mere mention of the name.

"Oh, that's right, because it's all my fault! Who goes around destroying people's relationships from a distance, anyway?"

"It's his understanding of kindness," was all he said, head bowed; and he didn't know who he meant, either.

After that debacle, it took John three attempts to convince him to go and have a drink with him and Sherlock. Not merely because Sherlock was too much of a public menace to risk getting drunk and thus rendering oneself unable to break up pub brawls; but because John mentioned Mycroft _hovering_ again. Why precisely that bit of information nearly sent Greg running, he didn't care to examine—and he was more than a little surprised that Sherlock didn't simply tell him.

Pouring hot water over the tea, he sighed.

If he'd known beforehand that, even almost sober, the pub brawl would be out of his hands the moment Sherlock had casually observed that at least three men of the stag do party had had sex with the bride just the night before, he'd have stayed home.

As it was, he ended up at Mycroft's house—not that it had been closer, but the pub owner had just called the police when all three of their phones had started ringing simultaneously over the racket, upon which John had grabbed Sherlock and the Inspector by their collars and dragged them out the door and into a waiting car with tinted windows. Now, with John disinfecting a nasty cut above Sherlock's left eye without a care for his own raw knuckles, Mycroft Holmes sat down across from Greg, carrying a cup of tea and an ice pack for the Inspector's fist.

"Not that I approve of your meddling, Mycroft," John admonished while fixing a butterfly bandage, much to Sherlock's disdain, "but sometimes it's downright useful."

It was the last friendly thing John had said to Mycroft in recorded history.

Not least because Mycroft's reply was a lecture on grown-up behaviour and the common decency he expected his brother to display in public, lest it upset Mummy; and John's startling failure to discourage him.

Greg had long tuned the general noise out that point, cursing himself for coming along on an excursion that left him slightly bruised, sober, and listening to the brothers rehashing an argument that was as old as time itself.

He was pulled back to reality, however, by the brief touch of a hand on his shoulder.

"They left," Mycroft informed him quietly. "On foot, I'm afraid, so good luck to them."

Lestrade snorted softly to himself, taking the ice off his hand and inspecting the damage.

"John should have taken a look at that."

Greg look up at Mycroft's accusing tone, but shrugged. "He did in the car, it's fine. Thanks for that, by the way."

"Yes, it is awfully convenient, isn't it," Mycroft snapped, eyes flitting towards the door his brother and the doctor had just vanished through.

Greg blinked a few times, quietly processing the fact that Mycroft seemed not only angry, but genuinely hurt. The impression was fleeting, though, as the older Holmes brother immediately composed himself and focused his eyes on him. For once, Greg didn't feel trepidation, just curiosity.

"I am sorry that you got dragged into this."

Greg shrugged. "You were trying to do right by your little brother, and I reckon you did, Mr Holmes."

"Mycroft, please. We've known each other far too long, and seeing as you're now nursing dusted knuckles in my home..."

There was an edge of disapproval back in his voice, but Greg noted with relief that he seemed generally amused, now that the worst was over.

"Mycroft, then. Plus, he's fighting crime, isn't he, instead of creating it. Makes my job a bit easier."

"Your job, yes, but... not your life, I understand."

Greg, unwilling to reply, waited him out. Mycroft obliged after a few moments of silence.

"Sherlock had no right to say what he did."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. You know that he doesn't do these things to _help_."

Greg shrugged, averting his eyes. "It helps to think that maybe he did." Before Mycroft could interrupt and berate him for lying to himself, he held up a hand. "I know it sounds absurd, but he's different now, with John there. And even if he didn't _mean_ to, he did help. It wasn't kind, but at any rate kinder than me finding out on my own in a few months. It was a trial separation," he added, knowing that Mycroft would know exactly what he meant. "Trial and error, I suppose, because it should have stayed that way to begin with."

"You're not...?"

"Unhappy? Not anymore than usual," Greg grinned a little mirthlessly.

The corner of Mycroft's mouth lifted, just for a second, but he moved to disguise it by steepling his fingers in front of him; a gesture Greg had seen with Sherlock countless times. The other man regarded him across the distance between their two armchairs near the unlit fireplace, expression and demeanour still as regal as when he'd first met him; and the rest of him, to Greg's chagrin, still as damningly attractive.

He wasn't too coy to admit when he found women beautiful or men handsome, but Mycroft Holmes had set a troubling precedent. While he had never thought of cheating on his wife, Greg had, towards the end of his marriage, found himself considering his options—options that had steadily taken on the tinge of chances.

He didn't like his odds at all, but that didn't stop him from wondering what might happen if there were a way of improving them.

Months later, stirring his tea and propping his feet up on the coffee table, Greg knew what he had to do. He'd managed it once before.

He had to make Mycroft Holmes crack.

* * *

A/N: I know, that took ages! Thank you all for sticking with me and this story!


	4. Close Your Eyes and Count to Three

_Months later, stirring his tea and propping his feet up on the coffee table, Greg knew what he had to do. He'd managed it once before._

_He had to make Mycroft Holmes crack._

* * *

"Why me?" Lestrade had asked, leaning back in the awfully comfy chair and rubbing his uninjured hand over his eyes. "I did figure out that you and Sherlock staged that night for my benefit, Mycroft," he added when the elder Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I thought you might." And that was the first time Greg heard Mycroft chuckle. A surprisingly indulging sound, and Greg was trying not to describe it as 'rich and dark' or any of that nonsense in his head; but that's what it was. He wanted to hear it again, as soon as possible. Now that he had it in his head to see how far this could go, a strange tingling tension had started up somewhere under his skin and he had to keep himself from leaning forward. He had no doubt that Mycroft could read all of it in his face anyway, but he wasn't going to give himself away entirely if he could help it.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed just so, and Greg knew he knew. From one minute to the next, the air between them went from the dormant buzz that had lingered throughout all those years to a very lively crackle. Mycroft took a measured breath, as if to calm himself; Greg's pulse leapt at the thought of shaking the unflappable man who spent his days operating in the shadows of the government out of his composure.

"Surely you are aware that I keep myself... appraised of any and all developments in the law enforcement services." Mycroft's tone was dry, but it lacked the usual condescension. He waited for Greg's nod before continuing: "As such, I have a keen interest in making sure that these operations run smoothly, be it the rather delicate business of government secrets or the simple task of conducting murder investigations." Holmes paused, and Greg knew that he was waiting for him to bristle at his job being called 'simple.' He gave Mycroft the hint of a smile, instead—for a Holmes, solving murders _was_ easy, that was just the way of the world, and Greg had been working with Sherlock long enough that these bouts of unapologetic arrogance were statements of fact, not insult.

Mycroft seemed pleased at Greg's reaction, nodded minutely, and picked up again. "We keep a close eye on those in the government's employ, and when my brother's addiction began getting out of hand, I started looking for alternatives."

"And that's where I come in?" Greg asked, unable to stop himself from interrupting.

"Precisely. I followed your progress through the ranks of a Met from when you were a Detective Sergeant; and when you were promoted to DI and placed in charge of your own homicide division, I was certain that you were... a candidate. I knew from early on that my brother would only ever be... I suppose you would call it 'content,' if he were allowed to indulge in his fascination with the macabre in a professional capacity. I needed someone who could keep him in line."

Greg scoffed at that and tilted his head at the other man. "Keep him in line? Really? He never does as I say."

"He looked to you for guidance in the beginning, even though you may not have realised that at the time. I know that you visited him while he was getting clean."

Greg shrugged. "I needed to make sure he understood the rules and procedures before letting him anywhere near my cases, sober or not. Not that it made a difference—I had to stage a drugs bust to at least try and rein him in, remember?"

"But to be fair, Greg," Mycroft shot back, and Lestrade nearly jolted at hearing his given name in that voice for the first time, "that was after Sherlock met John. Before that, he wasn't nearly as much trouble as that night."

Once had pulled himself back together, Greg had to concede the point with another shrug.

"You weren't just a convenient bystander that Sherlock could attach himself to." Mycroft's gaze had grown intense as he said it, and it unsettled Greg as much as it excited him. "I needed someone who was incorruptible, someone firm in their convictions and principles. Sherlock always breaks or at least bends the rules, and I knew that you would yield, perhaps more often than strictly advisable, but I also knew that you could keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow, broadly speaking. I knew that you would protect him as far as your job would allow and that you'd never sell him out, to anyone."

This had Greg's mind reeling. For a few seconds, he floundered for something to say, anything, until the thought that prodded at him most insistently was the first thing that came out of his mouth, against his better judgement. "I never knew you had such a high opinion of me."

It was Mycroft who leaned forward then, steepled fingers and all, his relentless gaze never leaving Greg's face. "There are a great many secrets I have kept from you, Inspector, even as you left yourself wide open."

A shiver ran up Greg's spine at the insinuation in Mycroft's words and tone. For a moment, he nearly expected Mycroft to pounce, but even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn't. This had to come from him, didn't it? While Mycroft had been in possession of all the facts for years (and had never said a word, _God_), Greg had only known the half of it, _his_ half. It was only fair, he supposed—and then he wondered whether fairness routinely featured as a contributing factor in Mycroft government business. He doubted it, frankly—which made this altogether more remarkable, didn't it?

He watched Mycroft for a minute longer as he sat motionless in the opposite chair, before eventually leaning forward himself. "How wide?" he asked, throwing caution to the wind well and truly.

"Impossibly," was Mycroft's only reply, and it was uttered with such unspoken promise that Greg's gut clenched in anticipation even as he realised that the other man's resolve was far from cracking yet.

He knew that Mycroft Holmes dealt with stubborn ministers from several countries the world over every day, and that he never once lost his temper (except maybe when squabbling with his brother). Greg knew that Mycroft could do this all day, spar with words and not ruffle a feather. He wondered whether he expected Greg to try and talk him into it—and if he did, what would he do when Greg did something... say, out of character?

The thought sparked arousal in him and he knew he had to act fast before Mycroft cottoned on entirely. Oh, what the hell.

He put the ice pack on the coffee table next to the armchairs and stood, removing his suit jacket. Mycroft followed his movements with his dark, attentive eyes. Greg had no doubt that Mycroft had weighed and measured the likelihood of this happening, but perhaps he hadn't quite come out with the right percentages. As he started unbuttoning his shirt, he wondered how horrible the humiliation would feel if this went south. He wondered that if he were drunk, at least he could blame the alcohol for noting caring. As things were, he only had his own recklessness to contend with. So he did.

Baring his torso to Mycroft, Greg noted with a spike of satisfaction the way that Mycroft's eyes raked over him, cataloguing what they saw, with more interest in them than just the customary observation usually directed at anyone that Mycroft dissected with his gaze. And then, Greg nearly dropped the shirt on the floor instead of the back of the chair when he realised that this wasn't the first time that Mycroft looked at him like this. Six years ago, in Sherlock's cluttered and dirty apartment. Mycroft noticed how Greg's breath hitched at that, and his eyes blazed with recognition.

After that, Greg made quick work of his watch, shoes, socks, and trousers, standing in front of Mycroft only in his briefs, already noticeably tented by his half-hard cock. Locking eyes with Mycroft, Greg took a moment to breathe deeply; and then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pulled them down. He stepped out the fabric pooling at his ankles as he straightened up, kicking it to the side. He regarded Mycroft steadily even as he wanted to berate himself for being a reckless fool. This could end his career. And yet, as he watched Mycroft take in his entire body, a calm settled over him; an answer to all this agonising over the role the elder Holmes had taken up in his life even as his presence could hardly be quantified.

"Why?" Mycroft asked, his voice carefully controlled.

Against all odds, Greg smirked. "All those years, you walked away. I know nothing I did ever surprised you, but... can you walk away now? Even when you don't want to anymore?"

In one smooth motion, Mycroft stood and stepped closer until they were mere inches apart. "You've got it wrong, Detective Inspector. You continue to surprise me."

"How so?" Greg asked, his eyes dropping deliberately to focus on Mycroft's lips as they moved, so close.

"I can't walk away anymore now. I never wanted to."

They met in the middle.

* * *

When Greg awoke the next morning—well, morning, it couldn't have been later than 4 o'clock—he felt warm and sated, and his mind was swimming with memories of the night. Unwilling to open his eyes and face the darkness of the master bedroom, Greg let them wash over him. Now, in his mind, there were teeth nipping at his lower lip, a tongue licking into his mouth, as good as fucking his mouth as his cock rubbed against the soft material of an expensive suit; a suit that he had made it his business to get Mycroft out of as quickly as humanly possible.

There were hands in his hair as his mouth latched on to Mycroft's collarbone, sucking at the pale skin usually hidden under impeccable fabric. His own hands had found the buttons of Mycroft's trousers, had tugged them loose, had pushed underneath and found his arousal. He had swiped his thumb over the head of Mycroft's burgeoning erection, had squeezed and tugged in a slow rhythm even as he was stark naked and the other man still half-clothed. They had somehow made it into the hall, and then Mycroft directed them towards the bedroom.

Greg got the remains of the suit off Mycroft, hovered close as the man insisted to fold them away neatly; and then everything went a little hazy as Mycroft divested himself of his underpants and pressed himself against Greg's thigh.

He remembered scooting back on the bed, he remembered Mycroft settling between his legs, he remembered slick fingers probing deep inside him. As Greg shifted slightly in the dark as he felt his arousal spike again just from thinking about what they'd done, he felt an arm wind around his waist, holding him against the warmth of another body at his back. He stilled, reluctant to wake Mycroft so early—or, if he was already awake, reluctant to talk about whatever they'd have to talk about once the new day started.

He focused on the hours before again, and he had to keep his breathing steady as he arrived at the sensory memory of meeting every one of Mycroft's thrusts with snaps of his own hips, of giving as he got, until their movements were erratic and their breaths coming in pants, even Mycroft's. Greg remembered clenching his fingers on Mycroft's arse, trying to get closer, deeper, and he remembered the heat in his veins at the groan that that wrung from Mycroft even as he braced himself atop Greg with hardly a tremor of his arms. When Greg did it again, pulling the cheeks of Mycroft's arse apart just a little, stroking the pad of his thumb into the cleft, Mycroft dropped down to his elbows with a shudder, trapping Greg's cock between their stomachs before reaching for it with his left.

Greg remembered coming and spurting his seed over Mycroft's hand, remembered Mycroft's thrusts turning harder and faster just before he climaxed, remembered arching his back as Mycroft pulsed within him.

He remembered a warm, damp cloth cleaning the come from his chest and the excess lube from between his thighs; remembered being tugged towards Mycroft and cocooned in the warmth of the blankets. He remembered falling asleep to a kiss being pressed into the nape of his neck.

His eyes flew open as just such a kiss was bestowed on him then, in the dark before dawn.

_I've got the Monday morning blues  
And, oh my God, I've got the home for you_

* * *

Lestrade reached for the phone on the coffee table. He hit the entry in his contacts that would put him through to one of Anthea's colleagues, who would connect him to a number assigned to Mycroft for little longer than a day. It was tedious, but they would be able to talk without fear of being listened in on.

Half a minute later, the line clicked. "Greg."

Lestrade blinked as the voice at the other end sounded... relieved. Regardless of his surprise, he pressed on. He had to ask the question he had never dared to.

"Why didn't you warn them?"

"I did." Relief melted away to the blandness of Mycroft's tone days ago.

"You didn't tell John the whole truth," Greg accused, the revelations from his conversation with John that morning still roiling through him.

"I knew Sherlock would figure it out, and he did."

"At what cost?" Greg snarled; and if he could have strangled Mycroft through the ether, he would have been severely tempted to just then.

"Why do you want to _care_ so much?" Perhaps Mycroft had aimed for irritated confusion, but he spat the word with such contempt that Greg had to close his eyes against the barrage of dread that rushed down on him as he prepared himself.

He took a deep breath before striking a match in his mind and burning the last bridge he'd had to cross. "Because I do! And I think you do, too, really, 'cause why else would you be with me?!"

The line remained silent.

Greg waited. And waited.

"Mycroft?" He knew the connection was still live, he could hear him breathe.

Nothing.

A minute later, Greg hung up.


End file.
